A Thousand Miles
by Kansas J. Miller
Summary: CJ copes badly in the weeks after her pressroom gaffe


A Thousand Miles  
  
CJ/Bruno  
  
Manchester, New Hampshire  
  
I knew I was drunk when the blood on my hands didn't frighten me. I simply wiped my shaking fingers on the edge of the table, staring for an incredibly long time at the prints I'd left. It took my brain a few minutes to process why I'd even started to bleed, but when I saw the broken glass of the bottle, my fuzzy mind connected the dots.  
  
The bottle was broken because it was empty and I hadn't found any other use for an empty bottle but to slam it down on the table. Drinking wasn't going to solve this problem. I knew that. I wasn't stupid. But I was stupid, if you know what I mean….  
  
I looked around the cluttered hotel room, wondering when I'd become a slob. No one likes you, my alcohol-addled brain thought, and as I stumbled towards the bathroom, even the rational part of me had to agree.  
  
I was startled harshly when a knock came at my door, but only about thirty seconds had passed since the bottle had smashed. It felt like hours to me, and the knocking turned into pounding while I tried to make the spinning stop.  
  
"Open the door, damn-it," a voice growled. I knew it wasn't Toby; even Toby didn't growl like that. I was so confused, so upset, and the blood was dripping down my arm as I held up my hand.  
  
I ambled towards the pristine white door and idiotically put my bloody fingers on the handle. Jerking it away, those same fingerprints were left. You can't do anything right…I had to stop this voice in my head, but the voice outside my door was a bigger distraction.  
  
"I know you're in there, CJ…If you don't open the door, I'm gonna—" the voice yelled, and I still wasn't connecting it to a face; I opened the door anyway, just to stop the harsh yelling.  
  
It was Bruno Gianelli, and I thought he looked angry. But then again, he usually was angry. I must have looked so pathetic as I stared at him, dazed and bleeding from the tips of my fingers. His expression changed but my perception of everything felt slow; his voice was softer as he narrowed his eyes and coaxed me back into my room.  
  
"What happened?" he asked after shutting the door, taking my bleeding palm in his. I said nothing, feeling paralyzed with the fear of what I'd done. Bruno looked up at me, insistent that I answer. "CJ, my room is next door. I heard something smash."  
  
I was too drunk and he knew it. "I was just over there…" I gestured wildly at the table, the only thing keeping me on my feet was Bruno's hand holding mine.  
  
"Shh. Okay. Sit here," he directed somewhat brusquely, but had I been more coherent I would have seen the concern in his eyes.  
  
I sat on the edge of the bed, slowly closing and opening my eyes as I tried to quell the headache I felt coming on. Bruno reappeared from the bathroom with a towel and a box. Kneeling before me, he took my limp hand, carefully blotting up the fresh blood that was slowly seeping from the cuts on my fingers.  
  
After he'd applied Band-Aids to the stinging slices in my skin, Bruno stood up and pointedly focussed on my throbbing, pained eyes.  
  
"I don't care how badly you fucked up in the pressroom. You don't do this to yourself, you hear me?" he asked, his well-intended irritation heavy and thick.  
  
I didn't want to face what he was saying, and so I looked at the bedside clock. 2:32 am. It was too late, or too early…and Bruno was still standing over me, daring me to explain myself.  
  
"What do you care?" I slurred, wondering why he'd even bothered to get out of bed. Someone could smash glass in the middle of the night for any number of reasons, I drunkenly figured.  
  
"Because," Bruno responded quickly, knowing he could get away with a little boy's answer as I was hardly coherent enough to challenge him.  
  
I looked away from his piercing eyes, not knowing what to do. My hand was done bleeding, but part of me wished that it could bleed forever. I wanted to get away all of a sudden, but trying moving forward brought a rush to my head.  
  
"Whoa, CJ…stay where you are. You can't fix it this way. And you can't just leave," Bruno said, grabbing my shoulders as I propelled myself blindly towards the door. "You can't just leave," he said again, turning me back towards the bed.  
  
I spun around within his grasp, facing Bruno as he continued to support me. "Did Leo talk to you too?" I asked wildly, the level of confusion in my head rising to the limit.  
  
Bruno rolled his eyes up and smoothed his hands over my bare shoulders as I steadied my stance. "No, but it's painfully clear to me that you want out."  
  
I did want out. I needed out. If it came down to smashing bottles on tables in the middle of the night, I had to get out. "What else?" I asked rhetorically, letting my eyes focus on Bruno's lips.  
  
He shook his head, the movement throwing off my eyes' resting spot. I was dizzy again. "I'd walk a thousand miles if I could do that press conference over again," I sputtered, feeling my knees go weak. Bruno's hands on my upper arms were stronger than the urge to sink down, and I let him pull me into his body.  
  
"Stop it," he said, his sandpaper voice low as his mouth neared my ear. "You did fuck up. But if we all drank ourselves into blood every time that happened…You know what I'm saying?"  
  
I thought he could have laughed, but I couldn't see his face. I let my pulsing head collapse on his shoulder, the ringing of his words resonating.  
  
He held me then, I felt his arms go around my back. Bruno. The guy we weren't supposed to like because Leo had made it that way. But he smelled good and my drunken body needed something to lean on. For tonight, he had a point. But tomorrow, I'd still know the truth. I'd still want to get out. Need to get out…Have to get out. * 


End file.
